Sam is nineteen years old, constructed like a switchblade that has only ever been used to scrape away the life that gets stuck underneath city fingernails and has never really shined

Our papers circulated like blood, pumping through our fingers, sentences oxygenated into pictures and filtered back into words

I was a tourist disguised as a student, my whiteness a lucky charm everyone wanted to rub.

my grandfather is immune to bee poison

poetry is my prayer book, I don't need any other god than your tongue.

we were not initials encased in an uneven heart

even lightning has a ribcage

I never thought something so filled with rocks could sound so much like the sky

you cannot know what it feels like to have nothing between yourself and beautiful until you've played the piano naked with everything except your fingers. Slam poem

Deportation is a suitcase made from the wrong colour skin. Slam Poem

and my tongue was an eraser that made her forget all my mistakes

today I'm the symbol on the bathroom door. [Slam Poem]

I thought I would die before we emerged into the sunlight. “Did you make a wish?” Kat asked, bouncing in her seat. I smiled. “Yeah. It was a really good one.” [A story about sisters and AIDS]

Her sentences came from the residue she scraped from the champagne glass sky, turned upside down over our heads. 'I'm a changeling,' she said.

my soles soldered trees’ tears to the sidewalks

a rainstorm away from a spring. [Abstract poemy proseish thing.]

Relentless beat of a frantic paradise, as light bends around them.

This is about the first boy to change my life. [names have been changed.]

it wasn't long before my words were too long for me and I tripped over them.

Hazy words as we evaporated. Nunca es una promesa. [AllEnglish translation posted as Ch 2]

I am becoming more and more like last summer.

Beautiful things can't last.

dramatic in a top hat and hightops, they'll never harmonize

There’s a boy who told me life is like a bunch of lemons

stars are the only frozen things in the sky

Contradictory, concrete, axiomatic. Garbage. The truth but only if you want it to be.

He had antimatter eyes that exploded on contact with anything that mattered.

Because dreams burn the color of illusions.

The zodiac cavorted with lost poems overhead as the century folded over on itself. A dead child was born from the neverdream blossom. [This is my tribute to everything Nightwish has ever written. It is odd.]

we're rewriting ADD: Abstract Daydreaming Disorder

Lady Luck sleeps around and drowns her victims [Slam...ish]

remember when we unzipped the sand with sticks that we dragged behind us like summer secrets?

the radiation causes mutations from overexposure to biohazard music. Her words are corrosive because she's got a caustic tongue and an excess of hydrogen in her head. [Angry girls are my favourite.]

A poemstory about a boy as he paddles backwards through memory's waters with his pen as his ship.

Praise Coffee, the God of the city. [Slam Poem]

I could almost hear it. 'Aisling, you've misplaced your skin.' A drop of rain hit my face. The clouds were melting, cold rain dripping down and turning the field to glittering grass. I stood still when it rained. [Selkie story]

This is for anyone who is annoyed with the narrow, angsty contents of suburban teen poetry. You know... poems that rhyme lie, cry, and die. This is for you. [Slam Poem]

Lexie is just a caffeinedependent faerie on her way to the Jitterbug coffee shop when her morning is interrupted by a rent in the spacetime continuum. [If you like Artemis Fowl or Faerie Wars this is your thing.]

We met as girls do. Her ocean eyes sang of danger and beauty and chaos. We ran parallel conveyor belts, burning the soles of our feet racing towards the finish line. In our fantasies there was no laughingcryingscreamingthrowing up.

Two children in a desolate world pass death between one another on cold winter nights before they're old enough to understand. [This is a scene from a dream I had.]

Just some chunks of my vampire novel that may or may not get written. These scenes are pretty preliminary.

3 14yearolds trying to make it through life without really living. Together, they write what they feel in a shared yellow notebook, and learn who they are, and that butterfly lives are beautiful but brief. [OLD & rather annoying piece to me now.]

The start of another endeavor... will be a modernized, werewolfized version of Beauty & the Beast crossed with Romulus & Remus. Unlikely to ever be finished or really worked on again.

I’ll always be just short of the end and past it at the same time. One cookie less than a dozen, one hour away from midnight. A cent more than a dime, a year after a decade.

Who are we, catching all our old dreams in burnt nets, fishing for all the little lost fragments of ourselves? [Really old experiment]

Written to practice metre and rhyme, this poem turned into something I liked. Lady Spider, in all her deadly elegance.

He plays with our shoelaces. He ties them together. Mine and his. Black and red. “This is us,” he says. “This is you and me.”

REALLY OLD poem... the piece that started my werewolf obsession.

Snow White as a goth? Eight small men named Gerald in a cabin? A rogue dragon that keeps popping up? Suicide attempts? Yes!

He punished the canvas with blue. [Short Story]